Fair warning—near the very
early morning
the poet—warm-
headed
sticky-
haired
and—waking at last
from his
dear precious cache
of small
curdled rest
to behold in that
moment—a bewildering
new panorama
of colors
and
forms
and sensations—and thereupon
rising
and moving—slowly
to inhabit
tesseract
after
tesseract
of convoluted
rooms that
will need describing;
any little man
such as that—
is quite likely
feeling a disparately
good bit—less substantive
than he
contemporaneously
might be feeling—confident
articulating.
